


I Will Fail You

by ScribeOfRED



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2018-03-16
Packaged: 2019-04-01 05:09:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13991154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScribeOfRED/pseuds/ScribeOfRED
Summary: He tries to protect Noct where he can, but some things are out of his control.





	I Will Fail You

Ignis has long had the habit of listening to the conversations of those around him, particularly when out in public spaces. Tone, volume, topics—all provide excellent windows into the mindsets of people unfamiliar and therefore unpredictable. If anyone speaks even a single ill word against his prince, he wants to hear it for himself.

There’s conversation this morning, as always, but hushed. Muted. Some unknown and unfamiliar whisper rides the wind—a rippling sense of...

He doesn’t know what, except that it isn’t good. It isn’t active danger, though, either, nor does it feel like the precursor to danger. There’s no sharp prickling between his shoulders, no ramping up of hot adrenaline. It’s more of a slow, temperatureless breeze: existent but without notable features.

Something has happened. What, he cannot fathom.

It’s not an attack; the empire hasn’t landed. He’s certain, because there isn’t enough noise, and the empire is not subtle.

Not that he’s ever been involved directly in an attack, never stood at ground zero when the empire has marched in. Maybe they are capable of stealth. No report he’s read has ever suggested such, though.

So it isn’t the empire. What, then? Daemon attacks are chaotic things, and there’s no overt panic here. It’s all undercurrents: the sidesteps around one another, the gazes that meet for a long moment before flickering away. Silent acknowledgements of some shared awareness that Ignis is not privy to.

It’s his job—the reason for his very existence—to join their collective, and all it takes is one look at this morning’s paper.

**INSOMNIA FALLS**

He’s purchased the paper before the words have sunk in. Not that they’re likely to sink in any time soon.

It’s no easy feat to absorb the (reported, only reported) destruction of

one’s home.

one’s family.

one’s king.

Astrals. Noct. He won’t take this well. Not that he should, but he isn’t... He shouldn’t have to lose a father to gain a wife.

If the Lady Lunafreya is even yet alive. This paper suggests she was in the city during the attack, which surely cannot be true. Never trust the press, he knows this, he... he knows. Alexis taught him that lesson herself.

_Astrals_. Is she dead too? Or just her? Surely... surely King Regis isn’t... he hasn’t been...

The paper rattles in his hands, stirred by an unseen, unfelt breeze. He lifts his head, blinks against the suddenly too bright morning. With the light comes a new thought: the paper—the media, they might be wrong.

(They aren’t.)

(They have a reputation for exaggerating, for spinning information into shock-inducing headlines, but no paper would run this news without absolute certainty it’s true. There are laws about this.)

(But what do laws mean if Insomnia truly has fallen?)

(everything)

(nothing)

He doesn’t know. No one does, except perhaps whoever orchestrated this... this catastrophic series of events.

Did Alexis know about this? Clarus? King Regis himself? Is this why they were sent out of the city to far-away Altissia?

It seems plausible in hindsight, but he’ll likely never know for certain. Not now.

And yet... surely not everyone is dead. There must be survivors. The empire can’t have wiped out Insomnia’s entire population.

Hope blooms in his chest before he can stop it, and he finds himself stepping back toward the racks of papers, scooping up one from each of the other three publishers so he can flip through them, skimming until he finds specific names. There aren’t many—most mentions equate to a ‘King Regis this’ and ‘Chancellor Izunia that,’ but Ignis learns precious little in the way of new or specific information. Nothing about civilians, survivors or otherwise.

The treaty, he learns, wasn’t signed. What a surprise.

It is with slow, mechanical movements he replaces the unpurchased papers; it’s with the same slow, mechanical movements he smooths out the creases in his own copy.

Each paper confirmed one thing: King Regis is dead.

Without fully understanding how, he finds himself at the door to their suite and pauses. Hesitates. Freezes up.

He has to tell Noct his father is dead. How is he supposed to do that?

By not appearing as a wreck, for starters. Only now is he realizing the door is blurry, and not from a lack of spectacles. He checks, though, just to be certain.

Deep breaths. Calm. No panic, even though their entire trip—their entire _futures_ —they don’t matter. Everything has changed, nothing is what it was even an hour ago, and he can’t make the clock roll back for any reason. Not even to spare Noctis—all of them, but specially Noctis—this terrible pain.

He must not fall apart, not when Noctis is going to need someone by his side, guiding him through this new and terrible trial. Eliminate the emotions, crush them down. There will be time to mourn later.

He benefits none of them by stalling, and he certainly doesn’t want them to leave the suite and discover this on their own, so he tips his head back, blinks until his vision clears and he no longer feels like he’s going to fall apart. Only then does he open the door.

His attention goes right to Noctis, an action he has no control over, even as he hands the paper over to Gladio.

The boy’s an orphan now, by way of a cruel, heartless empire. Perhaps they’re all orphans now.

He can’t breathe.

“What’s that look for?” Noctis asks, and Ignis’s heart breaks, a deep, shuddering crack that steals his voice away. He knows he’ll sacrifice anything— _everything_ —to keep the necessity of delivering this sort of news from happening again.

* * *

It’s just him and Noctis in this quiet hotel room, a rare but deserved moment of calm as they recover from the Leviathan’s aftermath. Even without his sight, the thought of facing Noctis, allowing him to see the damage—it pains him, almost more than when the Ring burned his sight away.

He might be wounded, might be disabled for life, but his words are true. He would sacrifice his sight a hundred times over to not have to answer the question he knows is coming.

Sure enough:

“And Luna?” Noctis asks, voice unsteady with only the thinnest thread of hope holding it together.

And lack of sight be damned, he has to turn away so he can swallow down his own grief at having failed once again to protect his young king from the overwhelming pain of losing one so dearly beloved.


End file.
